


Book of Days

by MadameFolie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Multi, Napoleonic Wars, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Side stories toWhen the Sixth Day Comes. Trouble is brewing, both within and without.





	1. Flyting (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March, 1801.

_My Brother-in-Arms,_  
  
_Rumor has it you'll be coming back down south again to talk business pretty soon. Good. Everyone here's got opinions, but it'd be nice to have yours, too._  
  
_We should catch up when you get here. Don't tell the boss, but I've been doing a little exploring. There's this great tavern by the canal, you're going to love it. It has your kind of waitresses and they don't water their beer. Let's sneak out and have some fun, okay? A couple young guys like us, we should be living it up more. If you're worried about what the bigwigs will think, well...they probably won't recognize us in that side of town. Besides, what's the fun in not taking risks?_  
  
_Sorry this letter's short. There'll be a longer one later, when I've got a little more time at my desk._  
  
_My best regards and better,_  
  
_Kongeriget Danmark_

 

 

See, he knows what his best pal likes; even Norway can't help peeking down the front of the waitress's dress. And he makes sure Norway knows he knows, nudging him under the table with his foot when she goes. Norway does his damnedest to pretend he doesn't notice. He puts the stein up to his mouth to hide.  
  
"Did I tell ya? Or did I tell ya?" He shoves Norway's foot again. Norway rolls his eyes, but he's blushing, so the damage is already good and done. Like his best friend would miss that one. "Don't go gettin' too friendly, tho', huh?" He sits back in his own seat, bobbing his knee idly. "She's already got herself a fella. And a coupla kids t'worry about, too. She ain't in th'market fer heartbreak." Long as the new beau does right by her.  
  
"An' how's it you know all this, then." More sipping. More staring. "Tried it yerself, have ya?" Aw, figures. Only Norway could turn this back around to him. He gets a kick in the shins for Norway's pains, too. He fakes hurt, and lays it on real thick, putting a hand to his heart.  
  
"'scuse me fer takin' an' interest in m'folks' well-bein'!" Norway's brows are threatening to shoot right through the roof.  
  
"You're excused," he says, and gets right back to drinking.  
  
  
They drink enough that the night air coming off the water feels good and they end up shucking their hose and shoes to let their feet hang over the side while they cool off. Denmark lies back so he can see the stars.  
  
"Yer drunk," Norway decides. He's not. Not really.  
  
"Th'hell I am. Beer there's half water, 's only rubes gettin' drunk on it."  
  
"Y'told me they didn't."  
  
"All inns water their beer, Nor." He turns his head enough to smile at him, crushing the bones his hands against the cobblestones. "Got ya out here, tho', didn't it?"  
  
Norway doesn't answer. Just throws a rock into the water to hear it sink. Fucking called it.  
  
It's nice to pretend this is how things always are. That there isn't the threat of ships on the horizon. The sky overhead is gorgeous and clear, like if he raised his arms and let go he could just tumble down into it and find it soft and lush around him. He laughs, sober enough to know all that sounds ridiculous.  
  
It's the wine they end up getting drunk on in the end: Denmark pours them some from the cabinet in his private quarters over a game of chess. Norway's probably two moves away from having him in check, but, hey, hope springs eternal.  
  
"You're shit at this," Norway tells him, slurring a little. "Should stick t'cards instead."  
  
"Ya askin' me t'surrender?" Slurring he might be, but his eyes are sharp as ever, flicking first from the neckcloth draped across his shoulders to his eyes, like he can see right into his head. Who knows, maybe he can. Now wouldn't that be something.  
  
"No. But you've already lost."  
  
"Hey, hey. It ain't over until it's over."  
  
Norway captures his king, the bastard. Denmark cocks his head.  
  
"Rematch?"  
  
Norway pushes him to the floor; he doesn't fight it. "Should learn when t'give up."  
  
They fuck right there, in front of the fire. The wine's coursing hot in their blood. Norway wrestles him to the ground and pushes into him with spit-slicked fingers. It's not enough, and Denmark burns from the strain of giving in. Norway sinks his teeth into his shoulder.  
  
"Harder," Denmark growls. If Norway wants him to surrender, he's going to have to rip it out of him. He does, scoring his nails across the ridge of Denmark's hip hard enough to break the skin. Norway comes, but Denmark doesn't. Norway flips him onto his back so he can get another good look at him-- the bruises from his teeth, the welts from his fingers, and his cock still lying hard against his gut.  
  
"Ain't gonna do you any service, holdin' out," he tells him. Denmark grunts. He's too tired and too damn drunk to move. Norway cleans himself up at the basin and climbs into bed. He's already gone back to the guest quarters by the time Denmark wakes up.  
  
He aches all day where he sits, but it's worth it. He gets off remembering that for months, long after the gashes have finally faded.


	2. Baleful Dreams (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April, 1814.

He dreams of spring when he dreams that night. In his dream as in reality, Sweden lies beside him deep in his sleep. His chest hardly stirs as he breathes and Norway must watch carefully to be sure it is moving at all. The trees in the grove about them are full with greenery, and their boughs heavy with the flowers and fruits of new life. Yew berries as red as blood litter the ground about them, poisonous cores turned to the sky. It is beautiful. It is peaceful. By now Norway knows this means nothing.  
  
He turns his eyes to the heavens as have the fallen berries. The clouds do not move.  
  
And so he returns his focus to Sweden. His face is unstrained in slumber; he seems gentle, almost. His lips lie open. His hair is raked about in madcap disarray from sleep. What a ruin time has made of them all, Norway thinks. He reaches out to touch Sweden’s temple.  
  
Roots of cold pulse in his fingertips. His palm. Ice spreads through his veins, winding up his forearm and into his blood. He cannot breathe. Norway makes to pull back his hand, but the ice’s hold on him is unyielding. He cannot move. Cold spreads from where they meet like a blight–  
  
Norway wakes breathless, soaked in his own perspiration.  
  
Sweden slumbers on.


	3. Flyting (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February/March, 1801

The first order of business that morning is negotiations, of the boring variety.  
  
When the British envoy arrives, Denmark takes England --the man himself-- aside for some private tea, and maybe a little something to spice it up. Anything he has to say, he might as well say it to him one on one and spare them all the trouble of having to sit through the ambassadorial blather. England seems like the kind who'd appreciate the chance to talk freely instead of running to hide behind formalities-- given the right outlet. His study's clear, so he calls for some tea fixings and gives the old liquor cabinet in the corner some much-needed fresh air.  
  
England takes his seat in one of the wing chairs with his hands folded in his lap. Denmark, meanwhile, sets out their options.  
  
"So! To what do I owe th'pleasure, huh? 's a mite far out east for ya, ain't it?" A bottle of brandy, some aquavit, among others. England tries his damnedest to look like his attention isn't on the refreshments. Almost does a half decent job of it.  
  
"Social visit," he says, stiffly.  
  
"A social visit? Thought you had your hands full with France, didn't ya?" And two pretty little cups to round out the setup.  
  
"Yes, well. All the better to take some time to breathe easy, I suppose." It doesn't take a genius to see that's bull, but he lets it slide for the time being. England's jumpy as hell these days, and he's got his intelligence network on duty around the clock just to keep up with France and his pet Emperor. And who could blame him? If Denmark didn't have blisters clambering up his ribs like dodder, he'd almost sympathize. "You know. Rest a bit. Turn my attentions towards more pleasant pursuits and such. Tell me, how is your family?"  
  
"They're doin' alright. Been tryin'a keep outta the mess over here on th'continent, fer th'most part." That's no secret, might as well get it out of the way. So if that's what England's here to figure out today, his people are wasting their time. He puts a liberal splash of brandy in his own tea. "And tryin'a decide whether t'get Ice started on Latin or Greek. Reckon at least someone in th'family oughta have 'emselves a proper Classical education." He shrugs. "'s jus', there ain't much call for that anymore 'less you're in law, medicine, or th'church. Whereas folk like you an' me, we're better off worryin' about civics." He laughs. "Madeira?"  
  
"Ah- no. Thank you."


	4. Flyting (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September/October, 1807

He almost misses it. Just as Iceland's footfalls vanish around the corridor corner, Denmark calls out "Hold up a second."  
  
There's a second where Denmark can almost hear Iceland weighing his options; the footsteps stop.  
  
"What?" Iceland surrenders at last, still standing out of view of the study door. He's taken some tone-- pretty normal for a kid his age, but Denmark's not so sure he likes it. Norway sips at his coffee from the dainty little cup, making some notes on a spare sheet of paper. Denmark pushes out of his own seat at the table and leans out into the hall.  
  
Oh, yeah. His eyes weren't fooling him. Iceland's ditched the knee breeches and hose today for a full-length set of trousers. Modern. Daring. But totally unacceptable. Denmark frowns, motioning to Iceland's whole...everything. Honestly. "Yer not goin' out lookin' like that, are ya?"  
  
"Like what?" Peering back over his shoulder, Iceland narrows his eyes. He knows. Well, good. Saves Denmark the trouble of having to treat this like a serious failing of his upbringing.  
  
"Like a sailor, is what."  
  
"And why not?" Here it comes, the crossing of the arms. Kid almost looks like his big brother when he tries. Almost. Not enough to stand his ground.  
  
"'cuz we didn't give ya schoolin' an' learn ya t'talk proper so ya could go 'round lookin' like a vagrant!"  
  
"Where're you headed, then, let's hear it," Norway says. He doesn't even have to move from his seat or put down his pen to get Iceland's attention. Iceland winces visibly and tucks his arms tighter against himself.  
  
"...the royal library."  
  
"That so. They'll give ya th'boot, y'know, if they think yer there ta loiter." Scratch, scratch, scratch, goes Norway's pen.  
  
"No they won't, they know I'm your brother."  
  
Denmark sighs, puts his thumb against his temple. He really doesn't need a headache like this to start the day. "Just go put on some proper pants, would ya? Nor, _you_ tell'm--"  
  
"Revolution's over, Ice, put on your culottes." Sip. Scratch.  
  
Iceland stomps his way back to his quarters, and stomps back out towards the door some fifteen minutes later, finally dressed like he's somebody who means something. After all they've done to make things easy for him, Denmark'd think the kid'd take the help with at least a little grace. Well. Young folks. Can't win with them when their pride's on the line.  
  
"Revolution ain't catchin' on, is it?" He means it as a joke, but if Norway finds it funny, he sure doesn't say. Seems it's their recent expenditures he's reading through.  
  
"Been workin' hard on that reconstructin', have ya?" Norway makes a note on a scrap of paper, checks it against the ledger he's reading, and makes another.  
  
"'course! Figure now's as good a time as any to bring things up to speed. Got me a chance to put down some fresh earth, so t'speak." Whatever Norway sees in the figures, he's not pleased. His mouth sets in a hard line.  
  
"Do ya even got th'money fer these projects? Some'a these architects ain't gonna be cheap."  
  
Of course they won't. What other choice does he have? He can't just leave his folks out on the cold. They're his blood, his beating heart. He owes it to them. But, big surprise-- it's easier to foot the bill when Sweden's not putting your investments on the ocean floor.  
  
"For now, sure, but you gotta think've the big picture, huh?" Denmark lowers himself back into his seat, burn wounds aching the whole way. Not looking forward to changing those bandages later, that's for sure. "'s an investment."  
  
Hard to be sure what Norway's thinking when he keeps his face a solid slate like that.  
  
"An' th'ships?"  
  
"We'll figure somethin' out. 's fine."  
  
What choice do they have?"


End file.
